The man was tall and slim, and looked to be in his thirties. He wore a tan, lightweight suit, wrinkled at the knees, and scuffed New Balance running shoes. He had red hair and beard, and his goatee was cut to a point. His shirt collar was unbuttoned and his tie hung loose. Years as a beat cop had honed Malloy's ability to size up people at a quick glance. Malloy pegged the man as a reporter.

The man came over to the car, bent down so his face was level with the window and flashed his photo ID.

“My name is Lance Barnes. I'm a reporter with the Times. Are you Frank Malloy?”

The question spoiled Malloy's triumph.

“Yeah, I'm Malloy,” he said with a frown. “How did you make me, Mr. Barnes?”

“Easy,” the reporter said with a shrug of his shoulders. “You're sitting alone in a dark blue Ford in a neighborhood where it's practically impossible to get parking.”

“I must be losing my touch,” Malloy said dolefully. “Either that or I've still got cop written all over me.”

“Naw, I cheated,” Barnes said with a grin. “They told me at the MACC that you'd be here.”

MACC was shorthand for the Multi-Agency Control Center, the entity in charge of security for the international economic conference that was being held in New York City. Political and business leaders were converging on the Big Apple from all over the world.

“I cheated too,” Malloy said with a chuckle. “MACC called and said you were coming over.” He studied the reporter's face and decided he looked familiar. “We met before, Mr. Barnes?”

“I think you gave me a jaywalking ticket.”

Malloy laughed. He never forgot a face. It would come to him. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm doing a story on the conference. I've heard you're the top consultant in the field when it comes to dealing with sophisticated techniques of disruption. I wondered if I could interview you about how you plan to deal with the planned protests.”

Malloy owned a firm in Arlington, Virginia, that advised police departments around the country on crowd control. He was on the boards of a number of companies that made riot-control equipment, and his business and political connections had made him relatively rich. A favorable story in The New York Times could mean even bigger bucks for his consulting business.

“Slide in,” he said and reached over to open the passenger door. Barnes got in the car, and they shook hands. The reporter shoved his sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing intense green eyes and sharply angled eyebrows that formed a V similar to the shape of his mouth and chin. He pulled a notebook and a miniature digital recorder from his pocket. “Hope you don't mind if I record this. It's insurance, to make sure my quotes are right.”